Ashes of the Moon Chapter Thirteen (b)
The flight into Maboso showed the devastation that had been wrought on the western side of the city. The airport itself showed the bullet holes and craters of gun battles and rocket attacks. But despite the scars, the city felt very much alive and bustling to Jared as he took the taxi ride out to the suburbs.
He misread the address and got out three doors down from where he needed to be. A smiling old woman in the brightest red sweater he’d ever seen pointed him to the house, and he thanked her and walked over to the high corrugated tin gate. From inside he could hear the sounds of children squealing in play, the mechanical ratatatat of a toy machine gun. He knocked, loudly, on the gate and the sound echoed along the fence. The play stopped, and he heard shrieks of “Mama! Mama!”
After a brief time, a strong-looking woman pushed open the gate.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Lonsobwe Mbeka?”
She raked him with her eyes.
“Who wishes to see him?”
“Oh, God, yes, sorry.” Hastily, he brushed the hair from his own eyes and held out his hand. “My name is Jared Padalecki. I met Mister Mbeka’s business partner during the - um, the uprising?” As she continued to stare, he added, a little desperately, “Mister Mbeka wrote me a letter?”
A flicker, in those almond eyes, and she stepped back. “You are welcome, Mister Padalecki. My husband is in the back. I will get you tea. Come.”
She led him around a neat bungalow that featured incongruous Doric columns stuck into concrete every few feet. It looked less like Home Beautiful, more the fall of Troy, but she was immensely proud as his gaze fell on them.
“My husband finds wonderful things for our home,” and she kept walking until they reached a small in-ground pool and a canvas shade tent.
The small man rising to greet Jared was not at all what he expected. None of this was.
“Mister Padalecki.” The handshake was firm, one hand on top of another, the grip of a salesman. “Welcome to my humble home. Thank you for coming. So kind of you to come. I feel like I know you already, yes, from the paper? Such an extra-ordinary story.” He pronounced every syllable, making it a declaration. “Please sit, please sit.”
“Thank you.” Jared sat, a little overwhelmed. “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Mbeka.”
“Please, please, Lon. You must.”
“Lon. I’m Jared.” Niceties over, he lifted his head. “You sent me the plane fare. I’m guessing you wanted to talk to me pretty badly.”
The salesman vanished, to be replaced by a hawk-eyed man with sadness in every line of his face.
“I do. You knew my Jensen, you see.”
“I did.” The hurt was automatic, had been lurking since Jared drew breath again in Kibilisa.
Lon nodded, folded his hands carefully.
“You know where he ended, yes? You could take me there, perhaps? Maybe, maybe.”
Jared’s stomach clenched and he felt as if he was going to be sick. Lon saw it, leant forward.
“This is so sad for you, yes, I know. For me, too. Jensen was my good friend. I have cried many tears since I read your story and knew how my friend ended. In my house there was much sadness, much sadness. Still, we are in mourning. But now, I would find his bones, bury him as a man of honor.”
“I don’t -“ Jared paused, searched for words in a throat closed with grief. “I don’t know if I can go back there.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But you must.”
“I must?”
“To say your farewell.” Lon put one hand spread against his chest. “For me, too. And for the Banda children, we must go.”
“For them? Why?”
“Jensen has not told you this, maybe? The children are to have the farm. His uncle, Jim? This man - Jensen owes him much. So, he is the executor of Jim’s will.”
Jared nodded. “Jim gave him a home.”
“And an education!” Lon sat up, one finger raised. “This is the greatest gift, yes? Jim sent him to University of Johannesburg.”
“University?”
“Of course. University of Johannesburg is the premier university of South Africa, you know.”
“I guess, sure.” Jared frowned.
“Faculty of Engineering and the Built Environment, indeed. He did not tell you this?”
“No. Didn’t come up.” Jared struggled for a moment, trying to bring the pieces together. “Then, if he was a qualified - ?”
Lon nodded, seeming proud. “Engineer, yes.”
“Why was he toting a gun around?”
“Oh, that.” Lon waved it away. “Jensen hated guns.”
Jared’s mouth did something that was meant to be a smile. “Must have made it hard for him.”
“How so?”
“Well, you know.” He gestured vaguely. “The whole mercenary thing.”
Lon sat back, a little affronted, Jared realized.
“He was not a mercenary man. Not at all. Often, he worked for nothing when he could.”
“So - what? He was a mercenary because he liked it? Was good at it?” Jared shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” At Lon’s frown, he added, “A mercenary. A soldier of fortune?”
And Lon gave a sad burst of laughter.
“You thought he was a soldier?” Lon smiled, head tilted, watching Jared as if he were some fascinating kind of puzzle. “Yes. This was strange in your article. I thought it was journalist’s license, yes?”
“He - led me to believe he was.”
Lon’s voice softened.
“Did you need him to be?”
A gentle question, but the answer was immediate.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes. At once, in Jared’s mind, the image of Jensen closing the door of the hut that night, saying, “I’ve got my trusty .303,” came to him so clearly it burned.
Yes, he’d wanted Jensen to be a soldier, able to save him and the children. The thought that he was something else entirely was dizzying.
“So he was a - an engineer?”
“You do not know his story? Then truly, my friend, you did not know him.”
Jared gritted his teeth. “Then tell me. Didier Baros -“ Lon shuddered theatrically at the name -“he told me Jensen didn’t run away and that everybody knew that. What did he mean?”
Lon eyed him, with gentle sadness, as his wife appeared with a tray of tea and was introduced properly to Jared as Festina Mbeka.
Then, he told him.
It was story of a new graduate, eager for a job and delighted to find one with one of Africa’s largest construction firms, a French-based corporation building a dam in eastern Kibilisa in a valley called Gambana. The project was enormous, over three hundred people on site and Jensen Ackles was hired as the most junior of engineers, helping to plan the next phase of the dam.
“I met him there, of course.” Lon smiled. “I was the provider of many things, the supply manager, yes? Of food and clothing and services. And Jensen, ah! He knew the country a little, he knew the language, but he was like a child amongst these men and so frantic to learn. Rush, rush, rush!”
Jensen had been there less than four months when it happened.
“You did not hear of it, in the US of A?” The cynical glint in Lon’s eye told Jared he expected no recognition from him. “But of course, no, no, it happened in an obscure country in Africa, and those who died, they were black men and women. The wall of the dam came down, and one hundred and eighty-seven people died.”
Jared listened, dry-mouthed, horrified.
“One hundred and eighty people?” The thought of it was overwhelming.
Lon tilted his head. “And the helicopters came that night, took every one of the French and the Americans and the South Africans. Every one of them except Jensen.”
“But - but why did they leave him?” Jared swallowed because here was the reason and the answer. “He stayed?”
“Yes, my friend, he stayed. The others, they feared a massacre, once those who survived recovered their wits, yes? Because there had been murmurings, always, about shortcuts taken, and not enough care for the workers, and too much rush. But Jensen stayed, and helped the wounded, and organized the lifting of the wall to save those we could while we waited for help to come from outside. And some wanted to string him up, you know, maybe give him a necklace? You know of this?” At Jared’s blank shake of his head, Lon said, “A tire is placed around the shoulders and set alight. A terrible thing, terrible. But this did not happen to Jensen because people knew he could have left and he stayed to help. And afterwards, he and I we start our building business, and we work on projects for a quarter of the cost of the outside contractors, and it is because Jensen could not leave the dead behind in Gambana. Always, they were with him, because he stayed and saw the people’s sorrow.”
“I wish - “ Jared paused, not knowing how to finish the thought, but Lon understood.
“He would not tell you, because he was of too much shame. I would tell him this shame was not his, these decisions were not his, but he was young and did not understand how little what we do matters in the end, if Fate has decided otherwise. Kubanda kyoweka, my friend. And this is the truth.”
Jared sat, numbly, trying to process the story Lon Mbeka had told him, trying to fit it against what he knew of Jensen Ackles and finding it fit only too well. It had always been there, that shell around him, but Jared had assumed it hid the more gentle man because Jensen had chosen to become a man who traded in killing.
Instead, it was the disguise of a gentle man alone in a hostile place who had stumbled across people even less equipped to deal with its dangers than he.
Lon leaned forward, nodding in encouragement. “So we will go and find his remains, yes? Because our friend was a good man, and this is a good thing to do.”
“Yes.” Jared swallowed. “I need to find Jensen Ackles.” Then softly, to himself, “I don’t think we ever met.”
Chapter Fourteen
He misread the address and got out three doors down from where he needed to be. A smiling old woman in the brightest red sweater he’d ever seen pointed him to the house, and he thanked her and walked over to the high corrugated tin gate. From inside he could hear the sounds of children squealing in play, the mechanical ratatatat of a toy machine gun. He knocked, loudly, on the gate and the sound echoed along the fence. The play stopped, and he heard shrieks of “Mama! Mama!”
After a brief time, a strong-looking woman pushed open the gate.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Lonsobwe Mbeka?”
She raked him with her eyes.
“Who wishes to see him?”
“Oh, God, yes, sorry.” Hastily, he brushed the hair from his own eyes and held out his hand. “My name is Jared Padalecki. I met Mister Mbeka’s business partner during the - um, the uprising?” As she continued to stare, he added, a little desperately, “Mister Mbeka wrote me a letter?”
A flicker, in those almond eyes, and she stepped back. “You are welcome, Mister Padalecki. My husband is in the back. I will get you tea. Come.”
She led him around a neat bungalow that featured incongruous Doric columns stuck into concrete every few feet. It looked less like Home Beautiful, more the fall of Troy, but she was immensely proud as his gaze fell on them.
“My husband finds wonderful things for our home,” and she kept walking until they reached a small in-ground pool and a canvas shade tent.
The small man rising to greet Jared was not at all what he expected. None of this was.
“Mister Padalecki.” The handshake was firm, one hand on top of another, the grip of a salesman. “Welcome to my humble home. Thank you for coming. So kind of you to come. I feel like I know you already, yes, from the paper? Such an extra-ordinary story.” He pronounced every syllable, making it a declaration. “Please sit, please sit.”
“Thank you.” Jared sat, a little overwhelmed. “It’s nice to meet you, Mister Mbeka.”
“Please, please, Lon. You must.”
“Lon. I’m Jared.” Niceties over, he lifted his head. “You sent me the plane fare. I’m guessing you wanted to talk to me pretty badly.”
The salesman vanished, to be replaced by a hawk-eyed man with sadness in every line of his face.
“I do. You knew my Jensen, you see.”
“I did.” The hurt was automatic, had been lurking since Jared drew breath again in Kibilisa.
Lon nodded, folded his hands carefully.
“You know where he ended, yes? You could take me there, perhaps? Maybe, maybe.”
Jared’s stomach clenched and he felt as if he was going to be sick. Lon saw it, leant forward.
“This is so sad for you, yes, I know. For me, too. Jensen was my good friend. I have cried many tears since I read your story and knew how my friend ended. In my house there was much sadness, much sadness. Still, we are in mourning. But now, I would find his bones, bury him as a man of honor.”
“I don’t -“ Jared paused, searched for words in a throat closed with grief. “I don’t know if I can go back there.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But you must.”
“I must?”
“To say your farewell.” Lon put one hand spread against his chest. “For me, too. And for the Banda children, we must go.”
“For them? Why?”
“Jensen has not told you this, maybe? The children are to have the farm. His uncle, Jim? This man - Jensen owes him much. So, he is the executor of Jim’s will.”
Jared nodded. “Jim gave him a home.”
“And an education!” Lon sat up, one finger raised. “This is the greatest gift, yes? Jim sent him to University of Johannesburg.”
“University?”
“Of course. University of Johannesburg is the premier university of South Africa, you know.”
“I guess, sure.” Jared frowned.
“Faculty of Engineering and the Built Environment, indeed. He did not tell you this?”
“No. Didn’t come up.” Jared struggled for a moment, trying to bring the pieces together. “Then, if he was a qualified - ?”
Lon nodded, seeming proud. “Engineer, yes.”
“Why was he toting a gun around?”
“Oh, that.” Lon waved it away. “Jensen hated guns.”
Jared’s mouth did something that was meant to be a smile. “Must have made it hard for him.”
“How so?”
“Well, you know.” He gestured vaguely. “The whole mercenary thing.”
Lon sat back, a little affronted, Jared realized.
“He was not a mercenary man. Not at all. Often, he worked for nothing when he could.”
“So - what? He was a mercenary because he liked it? Was good at it?” Jared shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” At Lon’s frown, he added, “A mercenary. A soldier of fortune?”
And Lon gave a sad burst of laughter.
“You thought he was a soldier?” Lon smiled, head tilted, watching Jared as if he were some fascinating kind of puzzle. “Yes. This was strange in your article. I thought it was journalist’s license, yes?”
“He - led me to believe he was.”
Lon’s voice softened.
“Did you need him to be?”
A gentle question, but the answer was immediate.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes. At once, in Jared’s mind, the image of Jensen closing the door of the hut that night, saying, “I’ve got my trusty .303,” came to him so clearly it burned.
Yes, he’d wanted Jensen to be a soldier, able to save him and the children. The thought that he was something else entirely was dizzying.
“So he was a - an engineer?”
“You do not know his story? Then truly, my friend, you did not know him.”
Jared gritted his teeth. “Then tell me. Didier Baros -“ Lon shuddered theatrically at the name -“he told me Jensen didn’t run away and that everybody knew that. What did he mean?”
Lon eyed him, with gentle sadness, as his wife appeared with a tray of tea and was introduced properly to Jared as Festina Mbeka.
Then, he told him.
It was story of a new graduate, eager for a job and delighted to find one with one of Africa’s largest construction firms, a French-based corporation building a dam in eastern Kibilisa in a valley called Gambana. The project was enormous, over three hundred people on site and Jensen Ackles was hired as the most junior of engineers, helping to plan the next phase of the dam.
“I met him there, of course.” Lon smiled. “I was the provider of many things, the supply manager, yes? Of food and clothing and services. And Jensen, ah! He knew the country a little, he knew the language, but he was like a child amongst these men and so frantic to learn. Rush, rush, rush!”
Jensen had been there less than four months when it happened.
“You did not hear of it, in the US of A?” The cynical glint in Lon’s eye told Jared he expected no recognition from him. “But of course, no, no, it happened in an obscure country in Africa, and those who died, they were black men and women. The wall of the dam came down, and one hundred and eighty-seven people died.”
Jared listened, dry-mouthed, horrified.
“One hundred and eighty people?” The thought of it was overwhelming.
Lon tilted his head. “And the helicopters came that night, took every one of the French and the Americans and the South Africans. Every one of them except Jensen.”
“But - but why did they leave him?” Jared swallowed because here was the reason and the answer. “He stayed?”
“Yes, my friend, he stayed. The others, they feared a massacre, once those who survived recovered their wits, yes? Because there had been murmurings, always, about shortcuts taken, and not enough care for the workers, and too much rush. But Jensen stayed, and helped the wounded, and organized the lifting of the wall to save those we could while we waited for help to come from outside. And some wanted to string him up, you know, maybe give him a necklace? You know of this?” At Jared’s blank shake of his head, Lon said, “A tire is placed around the shoulders and set alight. A terrible thing, terrible. But this did not happen to Jensen because people knew he could have left and he stayed to help. And afterwards, he and I we start our building business, and we work on projects for a quarter of the cost of the outside contractors, and it is because Jensen could not leave the dead behind in Gambana. Always, they were with him, because he stayed and saw the people’s sorrow.”
“I wish - “ Jared paused, not knowing how to finish the thought, but Lon understood.
“He would not tell you, because he was of too much shame. I would tell him this shame was not his, these decisions were not his, but he was young and did not understand how little what we do matters in the end, if Fate has decided otherwise. Kubanda kyoweka, my friend. And this is the truth.”
Jared sat, numbly, trying to process the story Lon Mbeka had told him, trying to fit it against what he knew of Jensen Ackles and finding it fit only too well. It had always been there, that shell around him, but Jared had assumed it hid the more gentle man because Jensen had chosen to become a man who traded in killing.
Instead, it was the disguise of a gentle man alone in a hostile place who had stumbled across people even less equipped to deal with its dangers than he.
Lon leaned forward, nodding in encouragement. “So we will go and find his remains, yes? Because our friend was a good man, and this is a good thing to do.”
“Yes.” Jared swallowed. “I need to find Jensen Ackles.” Then softly, to himself, “I don’t think we ever met.”
Chapter Fourteen